


Forever Is Our Today

by Sokkas_First_Fangirl



Series: Maycury Week [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ghosts, Gothic, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maycury Week (Queen), Maycury Week 2020 (Queen), Period-Typical Homophobia, Tragic Romance, Wuthering Heights References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sokkas_First_Fangirl/pseuds/Sokkas_First_Fangirl
Summary: “But why would Brian stipulate that he was to be buried next to Mr Bulsara, then?” Jim persisted. Roger packed away a small clock with rather more force than necessary.“Because Brian was selfish,” Roger spat. “He was selfish, and careless, right to the very end.”***One of the less savoury aspects of executing someone's estate, is sorting through their belongings, their home. But needs must, and so Jim Beach enters the home of Brian May. But there's much more than a simple estate to sort through.Secrets abound, and old grudges and old romances haunt the mansion.***(Or: It's Wuthering Heights time)
Relationships: Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Brian May/Freddie Mercury, John Deacon & Brian May & Freddie Mercury & Roger Taylor
Series: Maycury Week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911310
Comments: 18
Kudos: 34
Collections: Maycury_Week_2020





	Forever Is Our Today

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing angst? Why yes. But me being me, there's a happy/hopeful ending, because I'm weak 🤷
> 
> I just really love Wuthering Heights, okay?
> 
> Prompts used were "It's always been you" and "Who wants to live forever?" I promise I have fluff planned for later in the week!  
> Songs used while writing were:  
> "Who Wants To Live Forever" Queen (of course)  
> "I Found" Amber Run  
> "So Cold" Ben Clocks  
> "Exile" Taylor Swift  
> "Not Alone" Red  
> "Echo" Jason Walker  
> "Pieces" Red

_ _

_ “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.” -  _ Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë

  
  
  


Jim Beach rarely had to venture out to the moors; most of his business took place in town, but duty called. 

There weren’t many people in the area with money, with need of a lawyer, but the Mays were an exception. What made it especially difficult was that the only heir, Brian May’s cousin, was a student down in Oxford College, and he’d written to say he wouldn’t be able to travel to the May residence for another two weeks. Not exactly ideal.

Truth be told, Jim dreaded the idea of going through that mammoth property alone.

  
  
  
  
  
  


To his surprise though, when he arrived, he was greeted at the door to Thrushcross Grange by two young men. The first was a tall, lanky boy with soft brown hair, a gap in his front teeth and bright green-grey eyes. The second young man was stunning, with long blonde hair hastily tied back and big blue eyes- eyes that narrowed in distaste as he looked at Jim.

“Mr Beach?” the young man with brown hair said. 

“Yes, sir. And who might you be?”

“John Deacon, sir. I was the housekeeper. I was asked to assist you.”

Jim turned to the blonde. “And you?”

“Roger Taylor.” The lad leaned against the doorway, insolent as anything. “I was Freddie’s friend.”

“Freddie?” Jim asked, and immediately wanted to kick himself. Ah. The mysterious Freddie Bulsara. By far the oddest thing about Mr May’s will was the instructions for his burial: he didn’t want to be buried on the family plot. He didn’t want to be buried next to his lady wife, or his parents. Instead, he’d instructed that he was to be buried beside one Freddie Bulsara.

Roger’s eyes narrowed further, he shifted uneasily, defiance in every pore of him. John’s smile was tremulous, a little anxious as he looked at Roger.

“Shall we get started?” he asked, and led the way inside.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The mansion was beautiful, but Jim had expected that. He took in the gold-and-crystal chandeliers, the rich red carpets and beautiful paintings; the high ceilings and cream wallpaper, the perfectly polished floors and staircase. The library was in perfect order, even Brian’s documents were stacked neatly on his desk, or else folded away in drawers. It seemed sorting everything out wouldn’t be such an issue after all.

But as sunset approached, Jim felt uneasy. Brian had written to Jim, in his last weeks, giving him permission to stay in the house itself, rather than search for an inn. He didn’t consider himself to be a superstitious man, but something about staying in the home of someone so recently deceased rubbed him the wrong way.

Still, what other options did he have?

“Will you be staying as well?” Jim asked the two boys, hoping for their company. John nodded, folding away some of Brian’s clothes.

“I will,” he said. “I have my own lodgings here.”

Roger looked more sullen than ever, but at John’s pointed look, he sighed and nodded. He looked at the portrait for Brian and Chrissie May above the fireplace, and scowled, eyes uneasy. For a moment, Roger looked close to weeping. It was a wedding portrait, and Jim had to admit that they made an attractive couple. Chrissie Mullen had been a pretty young woman with long brown hair, her wedding gown and jewels the very height of fashion. Brian May had been tall and elegant, his hair tied back tightly; it didn’t look very comfortable, but his suit looked like it could pay Jim’s rent for the next six months.

“Were you close to him?” Jim asked gently.

Roger’s face closed off again. “I thought I was,” he said, turning away. “Let that be an end to it.”

But when Jim looked at John, the poor young man looked seconds away from breaking.

_ A falling out,  _ Jim decided. Always unfortunate, but such was life.

Questions were there on the tip of his tongue. What had caused the falling out, what was that last argument over? But Jim had always believed in minding his own business; it was a lesson that had been drilled into him time and time again. So, biting his tongue, he returned to the library and got back to work.

  
  
  
  
  
  


As he prepared for bed that night, he dimly heard John and Roger arguing in harsh whispers.

“He’s dead,” John hissed. “They’re both dead. What use is there in holding onto grudges anymore?”

_ “Hypocrite,” _ Roger returned. “You were furious too!”

“Until Freddie forgave him.”

_ “Don’t bring him into this.” _

“But that’s what this is about, right?” John pushed, his voice raising slightly. “Freddie-”

“Freddie  _ died _ because of him, John. So you’ll have to forgive  _ me _ if I’m not in a forgiving mood.”

A pause, a heavy sigh. “He was ill,” John said weakly. 

“He could have fought it, if not for that selfish git.” And Jim heard a door shut.

There was a long silence and then John’s quiet footsteps as the young servant made his way to his room.

On tip-toe, Jim crept to the door and closed it fully. His heart was pounding, and he was sure he wasn’t meant to have heard any of that. Old wounds, raw wounds, a story that was not his to claim.

He climbed into bed and put out the lamp. As he stared at the dark ceiling, he couldn’t stop his mind from going over what he’d heard. And with it, came new questions.

For starters, why would Brian May wish to be buried next to a man he had wronged so?

  
  
  
  
  
  


_ He dreamed of running through the moors, running after a young man with flowing black hair and smooth, dark skin. The young man was laughing, barefoot, and a thin bracelet glinted in the sun. _

_ He glanced back with a grin, brown eyes sparkling and mischievous. “Hurry up, darling!” he said. The boy stopped at a tree and spun around it. “Or have you lost all your stamina since you became a college boy?” _

_ “You’re hilarious, Freddie,” he said, in a voice that wasn’t his own. Wild curls fell into his eyes, and he quickly reached out and pulled the boy into his arms. “And as wicked as ever.” _

_ “Makes things more interesting, don’t you think?” Freddie asked coyly. He looked up at him through his thick lashes, but when he bent to kiss him, Freddie laughed and slipped out of his arms, running again. _

_ “Last one to the creek has to buy the first round of pints tonight!” _

_ “Fred!” Laughing again, he took off running after that waif of a boy. _

Jim woke with his heart pounding, and tears he couldn’t explain stinging his eyes.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Who was Freddie?” Jim asked Roger that morning, as they began to clear out the main living room.

Roger wouldn’t look at him. “My best friend,” he said. “My roommate. We worked in the local pub together.”

“Who was he to Brian?”

“Nothing much in the end,” Roger said coldly. “None of us were much to him, when it came down to it.”

“But why would Brian stipulate that he was to be buried next to Mr Bulsara, then?” Jim persisted. Roger packed away a small clock with rather more force than necessary.

“Because Brian was selfish,” Roger spat. “He was selfish, and careless, right to the very end.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Who was Freddie?” Jim asked John in the kitchen. The young man- goodness, how old was he exactly? Early twenties? Not much more than a teenager, surely- looked at him with a little frown.

“He was our friend,” he said. His eyes were dim, sad. “He was...The glue that held us together, really. We fell apart without him.”

“How so?”

“The three of us had a massive argument the day of his funeral,” John said, shamefaced. “Right after the funeral, to be precise. Blame was thrown about, insults exchanged, the usual. But it was ugly. I...I gave up on them, for a while. Nearly handed in my notice to Brian, actually.”

“But you changed your mind,” Jim said, a statement, not a question.

“Eventually. But Brian never really forgave himself, and Roger never forgave Brian.” He shot Jim an almost suspicious glance. “He was the one who looked after Freddie, he was the one holding him when he died. It was…”

“Traumatic?” Jim guessed. John nodded.

“We never fixed it,” he said quietly. “Not really. Not at all.”

“Did you and Brian?”

John shrugged uncomfortably. “Not really,” he repeated. His movements slowed, his expression distant. “Not much of a chance in that now, eh?”

“May I ask how Freddie died?”

At that, John froze entirely. “It was influenza,” he whispered. “He’d caught pneumonia once, and never fully recovered…” His voice cracked. “He went so quickly.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim said; he was beginning to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

John wouldn’t look at him. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I suppose we all are.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


He felt a chill as he passed Brian’s room that night, and resisted the mad urge to glance over his shoulder. A part of him said that, if he turned around, he would find Brian May standing there, staring at him. Foolishness, of course. 

But his dreams that night were far from foolish.

_ Roger came down the stairs of the small, cramped house, and John shot to his feet. Roger’s face was a picture of tragedy, pale as death (oh God), and streaked with tears. He was shaking violently, eyes glassy. _

_ “No,” he said, before Roger could say anything. His heart was pounding and he shook his head, trying to deny what he already knew.  _ “No.”

_ John had frozen, but when Roger quietly said, “He’s gone,” John collapsed back into his chair, his mouth working uselessly as he tried to think of something to say. _

_ He pushed past Roger, ignoring the two of them calling his name (“Brian? Brian, come back!”) and ran into Freddie’s room. It was a tiny room, with just enough space for the bed and closet, but it was painted a cheery yellow, which seemed like a mockery now. Freddie lay on the narrow bed, his hands limp at his sides. His hair was tangled and he already looked far too pale, too clammy. _

_ It took every bit of strength he had to walk towards the bed, but he collapsed to his knees beside it. Sobs tore from him until he choked on his own breath and he pulled Freddie into his arms, clinging to him like a lifeline.  _

_ “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “Don’t go. Remember the graveyard? Remember the ghosts? Haunt me. Take any form. Drive me mad if you want, but don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me where I can’t follow.” _

_ There was no answer of course, and there never would be again. What right did he have to ask anything of Freddie now? But the words poured from him all the same. _

_ “Don’t leave me,” he repeated desperately. “Don’t leave me, darling.” _

  
  
  


_ Freddie was shaking his head, tears in his eyes. “You promised,” he whispered brokenly. “You  _ promised  _ me.” _

_ “I’m getting married,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “I can’t- I can’t do this anymore. We need to grow up.” _

_ “Do you love her?” Freddie asked. _

_ “No,” he said honestly, because he knew he owed Freddie that much. “But my parents know- or at least suspect. And I won’t see you hanged, Fred.” _

_ “How noble of you,” Freddie said coldly. He wiped at his eyes, his breath shuddering. “So you- you call me here to- what? Tell me to fuck off? Break my heart? Marry some tramp and never speak to me again?” _

_ “She’s not a tramp-” _

_ “ _ That’s  _ the only one you’ll deny?” Freddie stepped back, expression crumpling, eyes dark. “You’re a coward, Brian May.” _

_ “Freddie-” _

_ “This isn’t a game to me.  _ I love you. _ You say I need to grow up, but I’m not playing here, Brian. I love you.” _

_ Silence. It was there, on the tip of his tongue, to say it. _

_ But he didn’t, and Freddie half-laughed, half-sobbed. He turned away first, he walked away first, and he heard Freddie yell, “Coward!” _

  
  
  


_ Freddie looked like he was sleeping. They’d dressed him in his best, styled his hair to perfection. His hands were lightly crossed on his stomach, a small bunch of flowers clutched in them. Freddie was wearing the locket he’d given him. _

_ They didn’t know much about his religion. He didn’t talk about it. But he’d told them that they didn’t bury their dead, they cremated them. _

_ He knew it was only fair, only right, but the thought made him shiver. _

_ “Remember,” he whispered. “Don’t go yet. Wait for me. Haunt me as much as you want.” _

_ Footsteps, and he turned to meet Roger’s cold eyes, John’s bleak ones. _

_ “What are you doing?” Roger demanded. _

_ “Saying goodbye,” he said, trying to stand up straight. It was the wrong thing to say: Roger’s eyes flashed with fury, with anger he’d suppressed for so long. _

_ “You already did that,” Roger said coldly. _

  
  
  


_ “I’m sorry, love,” Chrissie said. She’d wrapped a black ribbon around her sleeve, as a show of respect. “I know he was your friend once.” _

_ “Yes,” he said bleakly. “He was.” How to explain that his heart was breaking? How to explain that he would gladly wander the moors until he starved to death, or succumbed to the madness that threatened to engulf him? How to explain that he would be happy for death to claim him too, right here and now? _

_ He thought he’d already lost Freddie, and he’d lived with it. But living separate lives, while knowing Freddie was nearby was one thing. Living while Freddie was dead was quite another. He couldn’t fathom it. _

Haunt me,  _ he thought again. _

_ Silence was his only answer. _

  
  
  
  
  
  


When Jim woke, he thought he heard the piano playing, but when he entered the room there was no one there.

Was he going mad, or was there the scent of roses in the air?

  
  
  
  
  
  


He confronted Roger and John over breakfast.

“They were lovers,” he said, and watched them both pale.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said, but Jim was at his wit’s end.

“I keep dreaming about it,” he said. “I dream that I’m Brian. I’ve been dreaming of his memories.”

“You’re mad,” Roger said.

“He gave Freddie a locket,” Jim said, and the fear on Roger’s face was replaced with shock. “A gold locket, engraved with a rose.”

“...Yes,” Roger whispered.

“He broke off their-” He could feel himself blushing, ridiculous as it was, but this kind of talk could end in a prison sentence, or a hanging. “Their...relationship. His marriage was arranged.”

“Yes,” John sighed.

“He wanted Freddie to haunt him,” Jim told them, and saw the shock, the bewilderment on their faces. “He said...He asked Freddie to remember the graveyard, the ghosts. What does that mean?”

“I...We used to call on ghosts,” Roger said stiltedly. “When we were teenagers. As a joke. Usually on All Hallow’s Eve.”

“It’s no joke now,” Jim said, burying his face in his hands. “I feel awful when I wake up. I can feel his guilt.” He forced himself to sit up straight again and look at John. “You lived here. Did you ever notice anything?”

John looked uncomfortable. “I thought I heard the piano sometimes,” he said, shifting in his seat. Roger’s eyes narrowed on him. “At first, I put it down to Brian, playing through his insomnia. But when I went in, there was no one there.” He bit his lip, stirring his porridge. “Brian...He was  _ off  _ in the last few weeks. Staring at nothing, smiling at nothing. He never mentioned  _ Freddie  _ though. But the last time the doctor came to visit, Brian  _ told  _ him it would be the last time they met. It was like he  _ knew. _ ”

Something about Roger seemed to soften, ever so slightly. “Christ,” he breathed. 

“You were Freddie’s best friend,” Jim said. “Did  _ you  _ ever...See things?”

“No,” Roger said, and he looked very small. “I thought he was at peace this whole time.”

“He may not have haunted Brian,” John said quickly. “It could have been Brian’s illness, eating away at him.”

But Roger didn’t look convinced.

Frankly, neither was Jim.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They didn’t have to wait for night to fall this time, and it wasn’t just Jim. As the sun began to set, Jim could faintly hear laughter through the open window. He looked, and caught a brief glimpse of a young man, barefoot, with long black hair, running through the garden. He was laughing, running towards the gate.

His startled shout brought Roger and John running, and from the sheer awe on their faces, he knew they saw it too.

_ “Freddie?” _ John gasped, confirming it.

The figure ran straight through the locked, wrought-iron gates, and vanished.

“It’s really him…” Roger stepped back from the window and his face hardened. “We’re going after him.”

No one argued.

They followed in Roger’s wake to the graveyard. Brian’s funeral was set for the next day; his empty grave had already been dug, next to Freddie’s. The wind was picking up, and John had had the good sense to grab a lantern as they left, which Jim was glad for now, as it was rapidly getting dark.

It was dark, but they could all clearly see the transparent figure, lounging against Brian’s gravestone, staring intently at the gate.

“Fred…” Roger’s voice broke and he took a step forward. “Freddie, can you hear me?”

Perhaps he couldn’t, because the ghostly young man didn’t turn to face them. Even when Roger stood in front of him, he didn’t really seem to  _ see  _ his friend. It was like he was looking straight through him. Just staring at the gate.

_ He’s waiting,  _ Jim realised, and it broke his heart. 

As soon as he thought it, Freddie vanished.

“Freddie!” Roger sun around frantically, and John ran forward, the light in the lantern flickering precariously. “Fred, wait! Come back!”

But there was no answer. There were tears in Roger’s eyes, which he wiped away furiously. John was pale as a sheet, his lip trembling.

“We should go,” Jim said. Roger glared at him, but he made no protest when John took his hand and led him back towards the gate.

But that wasn’t the only ghostly encounter that night.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“How did Brian die, exactly?” Jim asked on their way back. “I was told it was influenza?”

“Not exactly,” John said. “He just...started to decline, towards the start of summer. There were no symptoms: he didn’t cough, he didn’t have a temperature. But he didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep. He seemed to forget where he was…”

“Madness doesn’t kill,” Roger said, but he looked doubtful.

“I don’t think it was madness,” John said. “I think it was-” He broke off, looking at Roger quite warily. “I think it was a broken heart. I think he just wanted to see Freddie again.” He looked like he was daring Roger to argue.

For once, Roger didn’t. In fact, he looked a little thoughtful. Maybe even a little sad. Beginning to mourn at last.

Jim turned to John. "You said that Freddie caught pneumonia once," he said. "You said that was why he couldn't fight the influenza."

"He caught it after Brian left him," Roger said dully. "He wandered about all night in the dead of winter, and didn't come home until it was nearly dinner the next day." The grief was still fresh on his face. "I looked after him. They said he was doomed, but he...He got better that time." He closed his eyes, wincing. "I thought he'd be able to fight again. I never expected..." 

"I'm sorry," Jim said. He didn't know what else to say.

Roger's laugh was a helpless, broken thing. "Aren't we all?"

It was something for them all to think about.

As they reached the house, Jim felt like they were being watched, but when he looked in the windows there was no one there.

For now.

  
  
  
  
  
  


His dreams were choppy, disjointed things. Brief flashes of a lifetime ago.

_ Freddie’s startled face as he- as  _ Brian-  _ kissed him for the first time. That brief, horrible moment, when he expected Freddie to push him away, denounce him. But instead, Freddie smiled and pulled Brian down, kissing him deeply. _

  
  
  


_ Their very first meeting, a flash of a grin from behind the bar, “What can I get you, darling?” _

  
  
  


_ Brian, hiding behind a large gravestone and jumping out at his friends to make them scream. Laughing as Roger shrieked, as John fell on his arse and Freddie pushed Roger in front of him. _

  
  
  


_ Meeting Chrissie Mullen and trying to smile, because this wasn’t her fault, not really, not at all. He could see the nervousness in her eyes, the way her smile shook ever-so-slightly. _

  
  
  


_ Nursing Chrissie uselessly as she died, coughing blood, too weak to even lift her head. He held her hand and asked her to hold on, to hold on just a little bit longer, but it was no good. She didn’t even seem to hear him, to realise he was there. _

  
  
  


_ His parents’ cold eyes as they announced his impending engagement, as his father sternly warned him to “stay away from that street rat.” That ice cold, final threat;  _ “We know. And it’s to end immediately, or he’ll hang.”

  
  
  


_ And Freddie. Freddie, Freddie, Freddie. Freddie, holding Brian’s hand and whispering, “I love you.” Those beautiful brown eyes lighting up at the sight of him. That sweet, wonderful smile. That amazing singing voice. Freddie, playing a jaunty tune on the pub’s small, battered piano. Freddie rushing around like a child himself on Christmas, happily planning what presents to buy- or make- for everyone. Freddie’s shy smile as Brian slipped the locket around his neck, closing the clasp for him. It was empty for now, but Brian swore there would come a day when it would be safe to have their pictures inside. _

  
  
  


_ Cutting off a lock of his hair and placing it inside the locket, unable to look at Freddie’s face, trying not to focus on how unnaturally cold he was now, all warmth fled.  _

  
  
  


_ That final, terrible day. Roger barging his way into Thrushcross Grange, shouting for Brian to get his “lazy arse” down the stairs and into the tiny village,  _ now.  _ Roger, cold and accusing, shouting that Freddie was dying, pushing Brian against the wall and demanding that he at least do Freddie the courtesy of showing his face. _

_ “I already forgave you,” Freddie said, but his voice was flat, and he gazed out the window. He trembled, but managed to stay standing. His breathing was harsh and ragged, his voice a mere ghost of its former, rich tones. “Do you really need me to say it? Why? To make you feel better?” He laughed harshly and it ended in a coughing fit. “Or so I can rest in peace?” _

_ “Don’t talk like that,” Brian said, half pleading. “You’ll get better.” _

_ Freddie’s glance was full of pity. “Oh, Brian, you do talk such rubbish.” _

_ “You’ll get better,” Brian said firmly. He pulled Freddie into his arms, ignoring his protests, ignoring Freddie’s weak fists hitting against his arms. “You’ll- you’ll recover soon, you’ll be okay, and-” _

_ “And what?” Freddie asked. _

_ And what indeed? What could he say? ‘I’ll make this better.’ ‘I’ll never leave you again.’ ‘I’ll make it up to you.’ _

_ In the end, he said, “I love you.” _

_ With a tired sigh, Freddie said, “I love you too.” Slowly, his trembling stopped. _

_ Everything stopped. _

_ “Fred?” Brian looked at him worriedly; he wasn’t conscious, his breathing was rapid, and he kept coughing, choking. “Freddie?” Brian shook him, but quickly laid him down on the bed. “Freddie!” Terrified, he flung the bedroom door open. “Roger! ROGER, Freddie needs help!” _

_ And then Roger was pushing him from the room, forcing him back downstairs, and Brian was left waiting with John, waiting for the inevitable. _

And Jim awoke to piano music. It was a little sloppy, stilted, like the player wasn’t in practice. 

Slipping on his robe, Jim crept from his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Brian May stood by the piano, pressing the keys in a hesitant way, a frown on his face. He marched towards the window and pressed his hand to the glass, staring out into the night. Jim could smell roses.

“He’s waiting for you,” Jim said. Brian turned to face him, and Jim tried not to shiver. He forced himself to look Brian in the eye. “That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

Brian inclined his head.

“He’s waiting,” Jim repeated. “He forgave you long ago.” More than five years ago now.

There was a glimmer of hope in Brian’s eyes; a glimmer that only grew as footsteps came closer.

“Jim? What are you doing?” John asked, and he knew when they saw Brian, because they both let out startled gasps.

There was silence. Jim stepped back from them.

And Roger stepped forward.

“I forgive you,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I’m sorry, Bri.”

At that, Brian smiled. John stood next to Roger; his hands shook, he looked seconds away from fainting, but he too managed to smile.

“Fred’s waiting,” he said softly. “Go to him, and wait for us.”

Jim could admit, he was even more startled when Brian spoke. “Thank you,” he said, to Jim, to all of them. 

Just like that, he vanished.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The funeral was lavish, and it seemed like the whole village was in attendance. Jim felt somewhat awkward, out of place...And yet, for all that he was a stranger, he knew more about Brian May than almost anyone here.

It was a source of gossip, of course, that Brian had chosen to be buried next to Freddie. Rumours were rampant, but thankfully most put it down to old friendship and old guilt.

As the coffin was lowered into the earth, Jim stepped back. He allowed Roger and John their space to grieve, to cling together. This, he was sure, was not something he should intrude on.

He turned towards the gate, and smiled. He could see them, clear as day. Brian, dressed in a lovely black suit, his hair flowing freely in a wild mane of curls, rushing towards the gate. And Freddie, sitting on the wall, dressed all in white, his locket practically glowing under the sun’s rays. 

Freddie stood as Brian approached, and Jim could hear him laughing as Brian picked him up and spun him around. He clung to Brian tightly, his legs wrapping around Brian’s waist. Brian slowly stopped spinning and smiled at Freddie quite helplessly, but all fear seemed to flee when Freddie cupped Brian’s face in his hands and kissed him.

After a moment, Brian set Freddie down. They stood there together, hands clasped, looking at each other. They looked towards the burial, towards their friends, and their eyes dimmed for a moment. They were talking, but Jim was too far away to hear them, and he didn’t dare get any closer. It was not his place.

Still hand in hand, Freddie and Brian turned and walked through the gate, towards the moors, towards the sun.

And then they were gone.

  
  
  
_ “But touch my tears with your lips; touch my world with your fingertips. And we can have forever. And we can love forever. Forever is our today. Who wants to live forever?”  _ -Who Wants To Live Forever, Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Maycury Week 😅 This isn't what I normally write, so I'm quite nervous, but also weirdly excited?? Anyway, I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Hoping to fit in some fluff later in the week, and thanks for reading! 💕


End file.
